Balanced
by Saraa Luna
Summary: Before one is pushed, they're balanced. Or they think they are. The fates of vermin and woodlanders intertwine in ways they didn't even know was possible, whether they like it or not. Collection of shorts; Push and Redemption Twining.
1. Versus (Ortho & Ashtip)

Three hours of weaving, string-stealing, and general pillaging later, and it was complete. Ortho grinned and rubbed his paws together, looking down at the twisted mess in front of him. He'd almost been caught by Friar Tribble twice and had to bribe off Warra Beak with a candied chestnut to keep the Sparra quiet and convince him to borrow some objects for the hare, but now he was finally finished.

He'd tied so many knots during the past hour that his fingers felt like they were still bally moving, Ortho thought, carefully picking up his creation by two clumps of strings. The items tied to the bottom of it made a small clatter, sounding like the foreshadowing rumble of thunder before a storm. Ortho looked at the constructed jumble in front of him and felt a thrill of excitement. If it worked this well now, wot, it'd sound like a blinking racket out of the Dark Forest when he actually used it.

Now to sneak it out.

Ortho gently lowered the created mess into his satchel that had been cleared of the slim picking of books within it, doing his best to keep the strings from becoming too tangled. It'd be worthless if none of them jingled around. The hare slung the bag over his shoulder and snuck towards the door. He poked his head out, looking around, and his long ears stuck out just as much as one of the torches on the wall. The red stone hallway was abandoned. Nobeast here.

A few more steps and a quiet click as Ortho shut the door behind him, and he was already striding down the hall. All he needed to do now was find his quarry, Ortho thought, patting the sword hilt at his waist. Skipper Jalik really needed to watch the bally tapestry closer. Things could disappear blinking quickly— though it wasn't as if the sword belonged to anybeast else. Martin had given the weapon to him, or let him borrow it until he died, at least, and yet everyone wanted to keep the champion's sword away from the one who had actual permission to carry it. T'was stinking unfair, wot wot.

A small sense of irritation nagged at the back of Ortho's head as he turned down another hall. It was no wonder the Abbess and his father got along so jolly well, he thought, glancing out of the stained glass windows; both of them had a tendency to give him things that were supposed to be his and then yank them away when he showed a lack of 'responsibility.' What was wrong with not being a grim-faced, gut-garter-collecting champion? As if they didn't control enough already. He wasn't like _Markus_, who'd let them keep him in a cage and plan out his whole life for him from step one.

At the thought of Markus, Ortho was reminded of what he was out to do, and he picked up a stride. Excitement buzzed up and down his fur. Rows of uniform dormitory doors stretching down the sides of the hall greeted him in various stages of being opened or closed. Crisp rectangles of morning light shone on the floor from the large glass window at the end of the hall. Ortho only felt the warmth on him for a moment before he passed through it. Ashtip had to be around here somewhere, he thought, scanning the doors. Usually, one just had to follow the bally screaming to find him, but hey! Even high-strung vermin chaps with a bit of looniness had to rest now and then, wot.

The pine marten was a fork or two short of a set of silverware— or a whole drawer of forks short— but he wasn't as paranoid before, and actually slept in the bally beds now instead of crawling up underneath them or the mattress like a demented mole. It narrowed down the amount of places he could be in, at either rate, Ortho thought.

Before, he would've probably had to go search every dusty book-choked place in Redwall to find the marten, but now, he didn't sleep crammed on the shelves anymore. At least, Ortho didn't think he did. How the marten hadn't broken his slinky neck up 'til this point was a mystery— but his relative location wasn't. Ortho rubbed his paws in anticipation, glee sparking up his belly. And when he found the place Ashtip was hiding himself in…

He counted the dormitory doors, watching out for the small numbers carved into the stone frame above them. Markus had said something about visiting him in one of the 120s.

But was it 124 or 128? Ortho thought, trying to sneak to the right door. Vulpez, it hadn't been 121, had it? Well, one blinking way to find out. He'd have to check through all of them. The hare felt his patience frazzle. There were so many doors, just like in Salamandastron, except here, one wrong turn wouldn't send somebeast accidentally stumbling into Badgerlord Dumic's furnace room. Ortho wasn't sure if that was a relief or not. Well, there was less death glares from giant poker-wielding badgers or stiff-tailing Sergeants, but Redwall could definitely use some excitement in its many corridors. This amount of meditating and pure peacefulness was enough to choke a poor chap, wot.

Even now, three seasons of solid abbey-living later, and he was still trying to figure out the blasted dormitories. Markus had visited Ashtip and spouted to Ortho about it enough times for the jolly room number to be engrained into his head, Ortho thought, and that wasn't counting all the little meetings they had in the archives that only they kept track of. He should be able to remember the blinking number.

_"Where'd you disappear to all day, wot? Thought your pile of useless papers ate you."_

_"They are not USELESS, Ortho, and please give that back! I need it! I told you, I went to go visit Ashtip in his dormitory room 12—. Don't you remember me telling you? …don't answer that question. Aren't you supposed to be working with the Abbess?"_

_"…no 'Mister'? Ha! I knew you'd have to break out of that bally snivelin' habit sooner or later! I didn't expect the weasel to be the final straw, though, wot. He's not exactly somebeast you can jolly well take seriously."_

_"Ortho, get off me! I need that paper for Brother John and Mister Ragweed; give it back! An' Ashtip is NOT a weasel. He's a bally— a pine marten. There's a difference. Stop calling him that."_

_"Fine, fine, wot wot. You're such a stiff-tailer. But what'd you spend half a day talkin' to Ashtip about? He's not a bad chap or anythin', but he's still a bit of a headcase, doncha know."_

_"Ortho, he's not… never mind. We spent the day talking about different things, really. Now please, please leave me alone; Brother John wants all of this due tomorrow."_

Five hours straight in a dormitory talking to Ashtip, and once he got out, Markus shut himself in another room and ignored everybeast else for the rest of the day, Ortho thought. Including him.

The hare tried to ignore the sudden other feeling stinging him as he looked for the right dormitory room. He _had _to be almost there. He sped up his search, breezing by 125 and the partially cracked door. Two mice slumbered quietly within it, arms draped over each over and their folds of habits as they napped together in a bed. Once he found Ashtip, they wouldn't be sleeping for long, Ortho thought, advancing towards the further end of the hall. Bloody Hellgates; even the Sparra wouldn't be getting shut-eye for much longer if what he did worked. The hare held back another smile, hurrying along the hall like a dibbun high on sweets and escaping Friar Tribble.

The room was 128. He remembered now. He'd seen Jessy helping the marten carry a basket of clothes and clean sheets up more than once, along with Farflit the grey fox in tow.

Farflit always seemed to be doing most of the lifting, with two of the baskets in his thick arms, and he and Ashtip's clothes carrying tactics had mostly involved snarking at each other while Ashtip's nervous eyes peeked out from behind the wavering stack of blankets now and then. Farflit was the master of subtle looks of disdain, and Jessy had prodded the fox in the side in light disapproval at his expressions more times than Ortho could count… though Ashtip, with his swift and paranoid eyes, was probably the only beast in Redwall who could catch all of them and snipe right back.

The marten did have a sense of humor, Ortho argued internally. He wasn't sure where he was suddenly finding opposition. Ashtip was capable making a joke; he just needed to bally loosen up, that was all. The blinking dibbuns piled on him every opportunity they got, wot, and he did was stiffen up like he'd swallowed an iron and then fidget around. If that wasn't somebeast who needed to stop being a stiff-tailer, Ortho didn't know what was.

…well, besides his father, but that old conker was in a league of stiffness all on his own. This was about Ashtip needing some more blood 'n vinegar in his twitchy life. Why not give him a taste of something more amusing than arguing with Farflit? It'd make him a lot more blinking cheerful to be around, and the dibbuns would be less amused by somebeast thrashing around like a fish. Snarkiness was all and well, but it wasn't _fun._ Just rather… sardonic.

_"Markus knows 'ow ta take somethin' an' run with it. 'e enjoys every moment of studyin' the same way you enjoy every moment of Champion trainin'. You know 'ow much that is."_

Any hesitation Ortho had when he stood in front of dormitory door 128 was erased when he heard Ashtip's sneaky voice in his head, a hint of smugness to it from Markus waving goodbye to him. Moving quietly, the hare clutched the satchel to his side and made sure Martin's sword didn't clatter against anything as he crept through the door. There was a barely audible click when he released the doorknob and closed the door behind him.

It took a moment for Ortho to find Ashtip, the hare first thinking that the room was unoccupied at the sight of all the empty beds and closed habit bureaus, but he spotted the lump beneath the covers in one of the beds around the middle of the room. Aha! He thought gleefully. A long fluffy tail stuck out from under the blanket and draped over the footboard of the bed. Either the pine marten was taller than he'd thought he was, wot, Ortho thought, carefully tiptoeing over to the bed, or Ashtip was sleeping in a bally weird position. Was he curled up in a ball halfway down the bed or something? Doubled over like a bloody jackknife?

When Ortho made it over to the bed, wary of every creak and soft padding of his footsteps, he realized it was the former. Ashtip's whiskered peeked out the side of the covers… three feet down from where the pillow was. The pine marten's body was curved into a sharp loop that made Ortho grimace just looking at it. Mustelids; them and their stretchy spines. Ashtip could give Rillford a run for his title of 'most flexible and always blinking noticeable.' The slumbering beast shifted, one of his legs giving a twitch. Ortho froze in place before he realized that Ashtip wasn't awakening; he was only changing positions in his sleep. The marten muttered something under his breath and hugged the covers around him tighter.

Ortho was going to kneel by the marten's tail and get down to business, but he hesitated, seeing Ashtip's whiskers twitch. He wasn't sure what made him take a cautious step past the end of the footboard, the hare craning his head to see the pine marten's face. Maybe it was the same bloody curiosity that his father was always ranting on about getting him into hot water— not that what father thought mattered, especially seeing that windbag was back at Salamandastron.

He'd always seen the other beast looking like he'd swallowed a red hot coal or had one dropped down his trousers; maybe he wanted to find out if a calm Ashtip was bally possible, Ortho thought, the hare leaning to the right and balancing on tiptoe. Ashtip muttered something again, his ear flicking.

While he was asleep, Ashtip almost looked peaceful. Other than a waver of movement across his face now and then and an occasional word muttered, a cringe in his body here and there, the pine marten didn't look paranoid in the least. Ortho had to frown when he looked at him. Straight-faced Markus always looked younger and more childish when he slept, worries cleared off his face, but a calm Ashtip without his paranoia made the pine marten look older, in a twistedly natural way. How did that even work? Either way, Ashtip looked… relaxed, for once. Not scared of his shadows or disembodied voices. It was blinking amazing, that's what it was.

Ortho almost decided not to tie the chime to Ashtip's tail. Almost.

_"Please leave me alone. I'll come outside later. I just have to finish this math essay—"_

_"On Vulpez's blinkin' tail, you do. Markus, you need to take your bobtail outside, wot. No one cares about the blinkin' papers."_

_"I do, thank you very bally much. …you and Ashtip have already been telling me that all day… just give me a little longer…"_

_Ashtip had already been there._

_"Doesn't matter. You'd better listen to us then, wot! Two hares outside, wot, comin' right up. No defyin' Champion's orders."_

_"Ortho, wai— AHH! Put me down!"_

All hesitation gone, Ortho crept away back to Ashtip's tail and kneeled. One flick of his paw later, and the satchel he carried was open, the sword of Martin sliding back against the floor with a soft click. The hare tentatively raised up the mess of strings, stretching them between his fingers like a spider weaving a web. His fur was on end as he brushed the first string against Ashtip's tail.

Ortho tensed and swallowed at the tiny flick the tail gave. The marten was like a rag soaked with oil: give him one little spark, and he'd explode. Mess up once, wot, and the game was over, Ortho thought. He slowly pressed the string in closer when Ashtip's tail didn't flop away. The hare held his breath. Another loop; another string. He fumbled before managing to pull the string snug. It cut a tangled line in Ashtip's fluffy fur and ruined the smooth flow, disappearing into the dark brown murk.

Ashtip gave a small shudder and whimpered something about cinder before falling quiet and peaceful again. He still hadn't woken up. Ortho almost found his heart pound up with relief. He grinned wickedly in victory before lifting up another pawful of snarled strings. And all of the Sergeants and Lieutenants had said he couldn't be spiffing sneaky! Ha!

Almost half an hour later, Ashtip's tail was a garbled mess of looped strings and debris on twine, forks and pieces of rattling trash and wood hanging down from it on the floor in a connected wave of wreckage. Ortho had managed to sneak the strung-up magpie's nest out of the satchel and onto the floor. The only thing now standing between him and Ashtip getting the prank of his life was the pine marten's slumber.

Ortho slunk up from the bottom of the bed, scarcely biting back his grin of victory. He crouched by the cot's side, poised and ready to move as he leaned forward and put his mouth next to Ashtip's ear.

"GOOD MORNIN', ASHTIP!"

Ashtip screamed loud enough to blow out eardrums and took off like he'd been lit on fire.


	2. Fairytale (Markus & Jessy)

_A.N: AU or Canon? The choice is up to the reader. Happy Valentines Day!_

* * *

Usually, Jessy was more interested in books about botany and flowers— and Markus mostly read books detailing math classes and Redwall history— but sometimes, when she had enough of gardening and blisters and Markus had enough of his smothering studies and piles of assigned reading, they needed a fairy tale.

It was Miss Jessy who'd discovered the huge and ancient volume of _Mossflowere Tales _in the other library, Markus thought, trying to balance one side of the book on his lap, and so they might as well read it. He scooted over in the big armchair and tried to give Jessy more room, only succeeding in snuggling closer to her. The old lounger had been up in the library for seasons with its once full cushions sagging, and instead of being bouncy, it now sucked the sitter into a blob of old fluff.

Markus and Jessy could both barely fit both of themselves into it, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with whiskers and cheeks brushing and their habits crumpled up and flowing out of the chair like a sea of green material. Markus's long and skinny legs stuck out the end of the couch and mess of cushions, looking comically spindly when compared to Jessy's shorter and softer ones. Add in the giant book they had perched and spread open over their laps and the distant open archive window, bringing in a spring breeze now and then, and Markus and Jessy almost felt sleepy from the pure comfortableness.

"Alright, it's my turn," Jessy said. She pushed her glasses up further on her nose, elbow brushing up against Markus's side when she did. The mousemaid cleared her throat and read the intricate writing across the aged page.

"'And so thy three princesses, all of them vastly beautiful and kind, gathered in council within their castle behind their King Father's back to discuss the upcoming ball and the monstrous creature that lurked outside their castle's gates.'"

Jessy paused, tilting her head up as Markus watched on. He gently shifted the book so the fragile page would be easier to see.

"'What can we do?'" Jessy said, imitating a higher-pitched and worrying voice. "'The ball is coming in less than a day, and we have that horrid _monster _outside! And he wants your paw in marriage, sister!'"

Jessy paused, and when the silence stretched on long enough to make Markus look away from the book and stir him out of his drowsy comfort, he realized Jessy was looking expectantly at him. Markus blinked in surprise.

"What, Miss?"

"Your turn to read, Markus," Jessy said, smoothing out the corner of the page. Markus glanced at the line they were on and looked at her confusion.

"Miss Jessy, that's another princess speaking," he said. "Those lines are yours. I don't get to start until the next page when the narrator comes back."

Jessy gave him a smile, her brown eyes shining with amusement, and Markus felt the book pages flutter against his stomach. He gripped the pages harder. It'd be bad to lose their spot, Markus thought, trying to focus on their page number and memorize it. He'd better hold onto the pages tighter, just in case. He ignored how the thickness of the book and calm air inside the archive left every page motionless without a single breathe of a breeze.

"But Markus, look at her dialog," Jessy wheedled, placing a finger against the ancient ink. One of the many bookshelves behind them gave a quiet groan as the wood shifted. The sunrays pouring through the window and softly lighting the room and floating dust mote here and there made the whole room smell faintly of old paper. "She sounds quiet, and she's so polite, even to her sisters. Even _I _don't use that many manners. And come on, Markus, it'd make more sense for you to voice her instead of the monster; it's supposed to be vicious, aggressive, and dominant."

"Are you trying to say something, Miss?" Markus said, raising his eyebrows at her. "Besides, I wouldn't be good at playing the princess. I don't have the right voice for her. You do. And you're plenty polite and nice enough for it. I'll just stay with other roles; beast included."

"Oh please, Markus," Jessy said, gently rolling her eyes. "Don't tell me you can't play her because you're a male, if that's what you're trying to get at. You don't exactly have the deepest or raspiest voice like Dipper does. You'll do great; you already speak like a princess anyway, with all of the 'Miss' and 'Misters' you use. And as for the monster— Markus, I'd be more scared of a talking butterfly; it'd probably be meaner. If it had your voice, this story wouldn't even be happening, because no one would fleeing from it."

Seeing the highly affronted look on Markus's face, Jessy laughed. She patted him on the shoulder and sank them both further into the engulfing cushions.

"Don't get sore. You know it's true. I didn't mean the last part about the beast in a bad way," Jessy said, brushing his shoulder apologetically with her free paw. She felt her paw tingle. "No one would be scared since any beast that sounded like you wouldn't be kidnapping princesses or hurting anyone. You're too nice for that. I'm glad, too; I wouldn't want to be crammed in an armchair and reading a book with a monster."

"Ah. Well," Markus said, feeling his face get a little hotter at the wide-eyed way Jessy was looking at him and her paw resting on his shoulder. Sitting so close together in this armchair with all the thick cushions made everything warmer, Markus thought. He might need to pad a few of the pillows down to keep them from roasting to death. He tried to squirm away an inch to give her more space. They ended up no further than before. "It's good to know you prefer sitting with me instead of a slobbering demon, Miss Jessy."

Jessy slapped his arm with the paw she'd had sitting on his shoulder. Markus smiled playfully as he tried to shield himself with no successful, the confines of the chair keeping him from raising his arm without elbowing her or jostling the crushing brick on a book half resting on his lap. Markus had a feeling it could be used as a first class weapon used to shatter armor if dropped from a high place.

"I'm still not going to play the princess."

Jessy looked at him questioningly, taking his words as a challenge. From the expression on her face, Markus would've expected her to cross her arms if they weren't busy holding on side of a book as dense as brick or currently crammed up against him and some pillows.

"Oh yes you are, Mister Markus," she said, lifting her head with a defiant glint of light over her glasses. Markus stared back at her, his eyes narrowed slightly and ears on end— except for his floppy one. "We're not moving on until you play the princess. _Nicely._" There was a few more seconds of silence. The two paused in the middle of the least intimidating stare-down in the world, and Jessy made wide eyes. "Please? For me?"

Markus squirmed slightly, remaining silent as fought with the last bit of pride he had, but one extra glance up at the deep brown eyes focused on his face pleadingly doomed him. That was the point where the hare decided to accept his inevitable end. He was going to do this anyway, Markus thought, so he might as well not draw it out and go meet his fate with class.

A small smile had began to subconsciously tug at the corner of Jessy's mouth as Markus's expression changed, but it spread across her face when he sighed and leaned closer to look at the page they were on. Their whiskers got tangled together, and Jessy found herself trying not to stare as Markus's fuzzy nose twitched, crinkling his whole muzzle. The mousemaid quickly looked back down at the page and tried not to focus on all the inappropriate comments about cuteness running through her head. She'd been taking care of the dibbuns far too long.

"'Please, we need to be careful, sisters,'" Markus said, ignoring Jessy's giggle at his dainty voice. "'Maybe one of the Sir Warriors staying in the tavern would help us if we asked them? We can't fight by _ourselves!_ That'd be terrible! What would we do about our dresses? And what would we do if they harmed Older Sister and broke up the ball? Oh! it'd be two tragedies on top of each other!'" The hare turned to the quietly laughing Jessy with as much dignity as he could muster, keeping his face straight, though he couldn't hide how some of his fur was standing up more than usual and his crooked ear was twitching. "Your turn, Miss."

Once Jessy had finished giggling at Markus's expense— and the hare had sneakily revenged himself by making her voice the annoying messenger who was eaten by the beast halfway through— the rest of the story proceeded in a blur of lost time and voices. Markus and Jessy jumped back and forth, playing whoever had been given to them or who they felt like they could imitate, and as they slowly dropped into the story, their switching began to meld into a seamless rhythm, emotion seeping into their voices as they fell into their parts.

By the time the middle sister had been eaten and the youngest sister had been captured by the monster— the oldest one handing herself over in selfless trade for her remaining sibling's safety before the handsome warrior who'd been lurking around slayed the beast, the middle sister popping out of its belly conveniently alive and in one piece— Markus and Jessy were acting as well as reading, doing their best to gesture and imitate the actions of the characters.

When one of the princesses flounced her dress, Jessy would flounce her habit, along with Markus, who'd surrendered at that point, and any bold speeches made by the hero or messages delivered were given with plenty of dramatic air-clawing and fist-shaking. The eventual battle between the beast and the warrior became an awkward and hampered slap fight on the couch, Markus and Jessy doing their best to have a duel despite being crammed right next to each other, and the dramatic resurrection of the middle sister turned into Jessy tearfully patting the melted armrest cushion… though Markus thought her tears were more from laughter than any sadness.

They actually managed to make it to the last chapter before Markus broke and they ended up discussing plot holes.

"But really, Miss Jessy," Markus said, frowning, "who do you know who'd run outside a castle when a stranger started calling to them when they knew a monster wanting to marry their sister was outside?"

"A foolish princess, I suppose," Jessy said, waving her paw dismissively. "But really, none of this would've happened if the warrior hadn't killed the monster back in chapter 2. He knew it was there the whole time, and that it was eating other beasts in the kingdom, but he waited till it was crouching outside the castle and _after _the second princess got eaten before he did anything. Why? He certainly had enough time to monolog!"

"I still think the second princess is a bigger plothole," Markus insisted, poking at one of the decorative letters on the book's pages. "She was the calmest and listened to the Queen's lessons the best, and then she suddenly loses her head to be lured outside for an obvious trap instead of the impulsive youngest? Something's fishy there, Miss. The warrior might've been waiting for the monster to corner the oldest princess somehow so that he could rescue her, and then she'd have to marry him. It made sense for him and his interests to wait— if he'd have killed the monster earlier and saved everybeast and the second sister, then he wouldn't have gotten to marry the princess."

Jessy stared at the hare stuffed into the couch with her. "Markus!" she said, horrified. "This was a fairy tale for cubs; how did you even come _up _with that? That's… devious. The warrior was supposed to be the hero in this story, not a manipulative snake."

"Call it an alternate character interpretation, Miss," Markus said, still flushed a little at the look on her face from when he'd spoken, but he didn't look any less satisfied with having made his point. Jessy looked between him and the book before giving a quiet laugh.

"Well, fine. Just remind me to never let you rewrite any fairy tales, Mister." She scanned her eyes down the page, following the intricate inking of vines and flowers to the place they'd left off before beginning their sidetracked discussion. "Hmm… the drawings are getting prettier and more closely placed… we must be near the very end. It's the narrator's part, Markus," she said, taking off her glasses for a moment to clean them. "Your turn."

Getting comfortable in the armchair before he began to read the next page or so that would end their relaxation and story, Markus smoothed out the page and read.

"And so, with the mighty monster slain and her second sister restored to her, the beautiful eldest princess wept tears of joy, relieved that the shadow over them had vanished. The warrior— wounded but still standing tall— held out his arms to her. 'Princess,' he said, 'you are the loveliest thing I have seen, and one of the most selfless. Will you marry me?' 'Yes,' the princess said. And they drew each other into their arms and kissed."

There was brief pause as Markus halted in his reading, both he and Jessy staring at the final sentence. They peeked up at the same time to give each other aside glances, awkwardly meeting eyes before they looked away, both trying not to fidget in their spots and suddenly warm and tangling habits. They'd acted out every part up until then, no matter the subject. And now this line was here. Right before the finish. And literally bordered with so many different threads of ink roses and ribbons that it was impossible to miss or pretend the nonexistence of, glaring off the page like a bright beacon.

"…you know," Jessy said eventually, fumbling to adjust her glasses and refusing to look up as her wide eyes flitted over the paper spastically, far too fast to be reading, "they usually just end these stories with 'and then they got married and lived happily ever after.'"

"Oh. Yes. They usually do," Markus said, staring at the opposite page like doing so would magically cause the other line to warp into something else. His fur was standing on end. "But, you know, alternate character interpretation an' all that. I guess they're just forward. This warrior an' princess." Markus swallowed and gave a little cough.

"Yes. Forward." Jessy said. "Very."

There was another pause as both of them continued with their soft fumbling, trying to get themselves together. The armchair and their close proximity and touching sides suddenly seemed to make everything that much more crowded and warmer.

"It is in the story, though," Jessy said. Markus's heart thudded an extra beat at the purposely calm sound of her voice. He felt hers jump up a notch as she said it. "We've been acting out everything up to this point, too. I'd be bad readership to leave it unfinished."

"Yes," Markus agreed, "yes it would. We should probably finish this story properly then, Miss." He looked up from where he'd been staring at the corner of the opposite page and the swirly drawing of a lily around the page number. He and Jessy met eyes at the same time.

They didn't look away again.

"Yes," Jessy said, her voice getting soft. Her eyelids were slowly starting to lower and Markus could see her curling lashes behind her glasses. He dimly realized that the fairy tail book was starting to get lowered onto their laps from where it had been tilted up and that he was leaning in closer with his eyes closing at the same time she was. "We should."

The book touched down on their laps.

They kissed.

Markus could see nothing, but Jessy's mouth was soft and warm against his, and their whiskers got tangled again and sent tiny little shivers all over his face. Jessy had to tilt her head up slightly to meet him, but she felt Markus's velvety nose rubbing on hers, just as warm and gentle as it had looked. Her lashes fluttered and a tingle shot up in her belly when she felt his free paw reach down between them and find hers.

Neither of them were quite sure how long they stayed like that, though it was certainly longer than the time the characters in the book had done so, and they finally pulled apart, tips of their noses and whiskers the last to lose contact before they leaned back to their original places. Markus and Jessy only opened their eyes when they were sitting where they had to begin with. Despite the lack of space on the armchair, it still had them further apart than how they'd just been. Their paws remained together.

Their eyes were still a little glazed when Markus propped the book back up again and turned his attention to the last sentences. Jessy straightened out the page with her thumb so he could see it better.

"And soon afterwards, the princess and the warrior helped her sister back into the palace, and all three of the sisters reunited with plenty of hugs and tears before the King called the oldest princess and the brave warrior into the throne room. He and the Queen embraced their daughter before thanking the warrior, and they gave them their blessings to get married— which they soon did, and lived happily ever after. The End." Markus looked at the big illustration at the bottom of the page detailing the wedding before he shut the book. Jessy flipped it over so the giant cover faced upwards. "Well, that was a nice ending," he said, looking at Jessy and smiling with his cheeks flushing faintly.

Jessy smiled back, her own cheeks blushing darker than usual.

"Yes. I think I liked that ending a lot."

* * *

_...and so did the author, all future events aside._

_However, as much as I really hate to infringe on this happy ending, I have news possibly relevant to some people in the Redwall archive. Does anyone out there read the webcomic Beyond the Western Deep, by Rachel Bennet (aka Kobb) and Alex Kain (aka teeds)? No? Well, if you don't, you should. Prepare to be blown away._

_A few days ago I began a fanfiction concerning the Canid in the world of Beyond the Western Deep, so if anyone who reads to webcomic wants to see my literary wreck in process, kindly go to the link here: s/8993262/1/Ice-Burn-Beyond-the-Western-Deep Elitist, badass wolf/canine warriors and arctic snows await. And Ermehn. There's some Ermehn too._

_Happy Valentines Day to all my readers,_

_-SL_


	3. Politeness (Farflit)

Nushka had not dealt with cubs for a long time.

The older, crooked-nosed grey fox vixen would have to be honest and admit this was her fault, in a twisted way. She hadn't cared for cubs much after Nekon had outgrown his clumsy cub stage many seasons ago, and when he had shed his adolescence to put on different clothes then those of Mavern and marched off to battle after giving her promises to return, well…

Nushka hadn't dealt with having a son in a long time, period.

But while she was left to sharpen her blades and her scout trainees' reflexes in Mavern, and take away the edge from her memories, she was also left with another kind of razor edge to deal with. Namely, a pudgy cub's irrepressibly sharp tongue.

Nushka was outlining her plans for her scouts' training routes and routines over a scroll map tacked across a table when Farflit decided to invite himself through the door, past her sparse living room, and straight into her planning quarters.

"Scout Lead Nushka, m'am!" he barked, giving her a salute in an awkward, not-quite-there imitation of his Aunt. Nushka almost started at the complete and utter invasion of her home. If she wasn't used to distinguishing between stealthy, possibly-assassin-or-threat footsteps and those of the clumsy footfalls of a cub, Farflit may have ended up in trouble.

Thankfully, Nushka was used to Farflit's arrivals; he bore as much tact and respect for privacy as Tilda, though she used even less 'm'am's or courtesies when seeking someone out. Tact was not a strong point of the Anorak family— especially around old friends. Or anyone, really.

But Vulpez, Nushka thought, looking down at the serious face of the short and plump cub, he hadn't even bothered to pause when coming through her doors.

"Yes, Farflit?" she said, not entirely turning away from her maps. The older vixen still kept one paw resting on the worn and ink-traced surface as she looked down to meet eyes with Farflit. One day, she was going to get a kink in her neck from doing this far too often.

Farflit— who was only dressed in his uniform pants, lacking the usual coat and undershirt the cubs of Mavern were made to wear during training— didn't even slow down.

"Teach me how to lie."

Nushka stared.

"Excuse me?"

Taking her response into account, Farflit reevaluated himself. The cub drew himself up taller, which made absolutely no difference, and stiffened his shoulders like a soldier being chastised in a training line.

"Teach me how to lie, m'am."

Nushka completely turned away from her map, wondering what the fragged ice-shards she was about to discuss.

"Cub, I don't even know what you're talkin' about," she said. "Why are you asking me to teach you how to lie?"

"Because Captain Tilda says I need to learn how to watch my mouth," Farflit said, still in stiff, soldier-reporting-to-superior mode, "an' she suggested you might know how to help me, m'am."

Nushka paused for a moment to process everything. Farflit was still as diligent as before, holding on to his stern posture, but it was far less intimidating with his fur-puffed face, tail, and shoulders getting in the way. All the same, it proved one point— Farflit was coming to her to learn how to lie as if were a military mission. As if were something she could teach, and not a childish, personal request, as it should have been.

"At ease, Farflit," she said, and the pup dropped some of his rigidity. Nushka tilted her head while she looked down at him, automatically seeing past the crooked mess that was her nose. It had used to bother her. Not anymore. She hadn't felt the need for vanity for far too many seasons to count.

"First off, exactly what did you _say _to get Tilda to send you over here? An' sit your tail down; you're as stiff as a frozen board an' it's botherin' me," Nushka grumbled, ushering him over to a chair. Farflit scrambled into it, his short legs momentarily milling over the side before he hauled himself up. His feet were hanging a solid foot from the floor as Nushka pulled up a chair next to him, turning the back forward and sitting down to straddle it. Her arms folded over the chair back with elbows resting on it.

"Captain Tilda had a dinner party last night to meet with some of the Damsontongue leaders an' all the other Mavern captains an' their mates over somethin'," Farflit said, briefly squirming to get comfortable before he realized it was undignified. He settled in his place instead, fluffy tail squashed at a jilted angle behind him. "I had to get dressed up an' go eat with them."

"Did Tilda ask you to talk, 'o were you supposed to be quiet the whole time?" Nushka said, raising her eyebrows. When ordered to be silent, Farflit could be the perfect little decoration to sway other visitors along with the other garnishes at the table. He wore a uniform with a kind of stoic politeness other cubs hadn't mastered and there was no immature squirming during long speeches. The poor brat _still _hadn't dropped an inch of his pup fat or fur off his face— or anywhere else, Nushka thought— as and as a result, he got cooed over far, far more than he would've liked. He was a little cub struggling to be a grown-up and imitate his Aunt, and it was adorable.

Then he would open his mouth.

"I was supposed to speak when spoken to," Farflit said, seemingly aware of Nushka's judgment as he kept his legs from swinging beneath the chair. Soldiers didn't swing their legs. "I got spoken to."

"Who was it?" Nushka said grimly, using the same tone as when she inquired about who was injured after a raid. This was same thing anyway.

"Captain Oreslash's wife," Farflit said. He made a face for a moment as he felt the gap in his teeth from his one missing front tooth, but the fox pushed on past his discomfort. "I was sittin' next to her at the table an' eatin' my bread roll when she started talkin' to me, m'am. She asked me if I thought her dress was pretty."

_Oh, fragging spirits._

"I told her it looked like some'un cracked a big egg over her an' then tried to cook it."

"Farflit!" Nushka snapped. She stared in disbelief at the unabashed pup sitting beside her… though with not near as much disbelief as she should have felt. "What in all of Hell's gates made you think that was a good thin' to tell to a Captain's wife?"

"She asked if I thought it was pretty 'o not; it wasn't, m'am," Farflit said, crossing his obstinate arms over his belly. It was one step from defiantly raising them up over his chest. "If she would've asked if _she _was pretty, I would've said yes. But she asked 'bout her dress instead."

"What did she an' Tilda have to say about your comment, then?" Nushka said, pushing past her original incredulity as Farflit stubbornly stared back. Gettin' stuck on one thing with Farflit wouldn't let you get far with him.

"Captain Tilda was on the other side of the table talkin' to a Damsontongue, an' she gave me a glare," Farflit said. "Captain Oreslash's wife just kinda choked for a second an' stared before she said I was a dear an' thanked me."

Farflit paused, glancing towards Nushka's planning room door.

"I think she was lyin'. An' didn't like me."

"Farflit—"

"It's alright, m'am; I didn't like her much by the end of dinner either."

"Farflit, there are thin's you damned well just don't _say_," Nushka growled, raising one paw to quiet the fox cub. "Especially to some'un of higher rank, 'o any'un, full stop. It's disrespectful an' defiant, but I'm not goin' to lecture you on that; Tilda probably gave you a proper earful."

"Captain Tilda made me be quiet for the rest of the evenin' an' apologize to her an' the Captain when they went out," Farflit said, matter-of-fact. "Aunt Tilda is the 'un who got up in the mornin' an' told me to go pick a switch an' take off my undershirt an' jacket."

Well, that explained his lack of torso uniform, Nushka thought, eying his bare shoulders and hidden back. He was probably too sore to wear any clothes over them.

"Learn any lesson why you shouldn't have said that?" Nushka said.

Farflit's few seconds of complacency burned up as swiftly as one of Nushka's old maps in a fire. He set his jaw stubbornly and leaned back with crossed arms, holding back a wince at how it jarred his bruised back against the chair.

"I wasn't goin' to lie to her."

Nushka only took one look at the fierce, set stubbornness and insolence in Farflit's eyes to realize that he wasn't going to change his mind about the righteousness of why and what he had done. He had taken his punishment, but he definitely felt he had been in the right, whether he verbally acknowledged it or not.

Nekon had felt the same way about his decision to leave.

Nushka sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose before she perked up again. Her worn left ear fluttered with all the delicacy of a shredded moth wing.

"Farflit, there's a difference between lyin' an' bein' polite," she said, gesturing at him as her other paw curled around the top of her chair's hard back. "Sometimes both are necessary, but you're goin' to have to use the latter around beasts if you want to keep thin's goin' smoothly. If you're convinced they're the same thin', you're not goin' to use politeness when you need it."

"Then what's the difference, m'am?"

"Politeness is when you say 'o do somethin' to other beasts to keep them contented an' thin's goin' smoothly, so you can get to talkin' them blunt later," Nushka said. "Lyin' is when you say somethin' not true to wring somethin' out of another beast."

"You mean they're the same thin'."

Nushka mentally threw up her paws and surrendered.

"No, they're not; but they are to the Anorak family," Nushka snapped. Spirits, Tilda and Farflit were really one and the same. She resisted rolling her eyes in exasperation. "Fine. I'll teach you how to tell a polite lie. It en't the same as regular lyin', either, so you better be usin' it an' tellin' a few polite lies 'o two, especially at the next dinner."

"Do I have to lie to every'un, m'am?" Farflit said.

His humungous eyebrows furrowed together at the thought, making his face the very image of disapproving solemnity. Nushka was convinced they looked like dueling caterpillars plastered to his face. The pup had a thick jaw, thick brows, and as for his midsection— well, Tilda was pushing him in training as much as she could push a six-season-old without pulverizing him.

His body still screamed in protest and refused to yield its chub up.

Tilda kept up a constant stream of grumbles about it being damned Gespine's side of the family that made his son so plump; neither she nor Faina had family who were anything but lithe. Nushka only chuckled quietly and told her it had been the same with Nekon; pups outgrew their fat soon enough… and if she kept up her persistence up, she was going to strip Farflit down to skin and bone.

The other vixen hadn't liked the gleam in Tilda's eyes when she had responded 'we'll see.'

"No, Farflit, only when you need to," Nushka said, scooting her chair closer. "An' stop callin' me 'm'am' for now; all fellow liars are equals."

"Alright, m— Nushka." Farflit said. He hesitated, looking uncomfortable with his statement, and his pink tongue popped up again to probe the empty spot where his front tooth had once been before he could stop it. Messing with Tilda's spear hadn't ended well. "I'll stop callin' you m'am, Scout Lead."

"I told you to drop that for now," Nushka said. She tapped the top of her silver-streaked head, touching a patch of fur that was almost the same shade as Farflit was all over. "If you're goin' to learn how to lie, why have to start with makin' this whole thin' a lie; you an' I really en't equal rank. An' for good reason," she said dryly.

Farflit seemed to hear something in her tone that served as whetstone for his tongue.

"Then I'll drop it for this whole lesson," Farflit said. He stared boldly back at Nushka in a manner that cut through rank far, far too easily for someone his age. "M'am."

"…now you're just bein' an impudent little snot," Nushka said.

"No I'm not, Nushka," Farflit said, keeping a straight face.

Nushka couldn't find an immediate response for that, but she had to admit that the pup wasn't cracking up in the slightest. Hellgates, she thought, he would make a damn decent liar yet, assuming he could keep that up.

It was a lesson about lying, and Nushka was going to be completely honest with herself: this was bending the truth at its deepest core. Little Farflit Anorak didn't have a polite bone in his body, an' they were out to convince everyone he did. If that wasn't deceit, nothing was.

Farflit had been more correct about lyin' and politeness being the same thing than he realized.

"Not bad, Farflit," Nushka said, sweeping her tail off the chair behind her. "You're startin' to catch on. I can say the same about your height to your width."

The pup looked confused— not quite understanding her jab— but once he got the gist of it, Nushka was greeted with a glare that would have curdled the edges of her maps pinned around the walls. She chuckled at the look on his face.

"Now, now, control yourself. En't you supposed to be a liar? Smile for me," Nushka coaxed.

She got a browbeating of eyebrows to rival all browbeatings. Nushka began to feel concerned that Farflit was going to hurt himself with those things attached to his face.

"Farflit, you're doin' a fragshot job of smilin'."

"This is 'posed to be a lesson on how to polite lie, not anythin' else," Farflit grumbled.

"Too bad; I'm the teacher, an' I pick what we're learnin'," Nushka said, crossing one leg and laying a foot on her knee. She made sure to give Farflit a significant look, the same she used to prod her fledgling scouts back into order. "I stopped some of my mappin' an' plannin' just to humor this request of yours. If you're not goin' to cooperate with me, you can go right back out that door, pup, because I have genuine work to do for Mavern." Nushka raised a paw and thumbed back at the door behind her. "It's your choice."

Farflit struggled with himself for a moment, fighting every comment and tiny rebellion that was no doubt rising to his mouth while he tried to find what he wanted, and Nushka just sat back and watched the cub squirm. He wasn't as composed as he believed himself to be, she thought. The vixen saw another little peek of his tongue as the tic for absent-front-tooth searching returned before Farflit abruptly stopped it. The few bruises he had along his back from his disciplinary hiding weren't doing much better to help him cease his squirming once he'd started.

"…I want to stay," Farflit said finally, his scruff's fur prickling in irritation. Nushka had to keep back a snort. But pikesteeth, it had taken the little captain a while to swallow down his pride.

"Good," she said. "Now put yourself back in order. This is a class for liars, after all." Nushka pressed her spread fingers together. "Smilin' when you don't want to isn't the only kind of lyin', an' since you're havin' trouble with that, we'll go to compliments— an' avoidin' them. When a Captain's wife asks you if her dress is pretty, what do you _think _you're supposed to say?"

"Yer dress is pretty," Farflit said, speaking in the same flat intonation as someone who had found a dried up an' dead beetle in their coat pocket.

"Hellgates no, not in that tone," Nushka scoffed. "That's even worse than flat-out tellin' her what you think. Might as well go an' be an ass if you're goin' to speak like that. You have to go an' tell her that, but you have to make it the truth."

"How?" Farflit said, leaning forward in his seat. He seemed to have forgotten his rule against letting his legs swing back and forth.

"You think about how what is spoken can mean somethin' else, an' then you reply truthfully to that question instead," Nushka said, trying to find a way to make lying appealing and truthful for someone who hated it. "For instance, when the captain's wife was talkin' to you an' askin' if you found her dress pretty, you _could _think she wasn't just talkin' about the dress— if she was, why would she be wearin' it? She was really askin' if you found _her_ in the dress pretty, only in a different way. An' you found her pretty, didn't you? So then you look her straight in the face an' say, 'yes, I think your dress is pretty' with the other question in mind, an' you're bein' honest an' clean with answerin'. Everyone keeps chatterin' away happily an' the dinner goes on. An' you've just told the most truthful lie you can."

"That— that doesn't even make sense," Farflit said, his brows furrowing. "You still—"

"—answered the question, even if you made sure to understand it differently," Nushka said.

"What if she was ugly?"

"Then you find 'un pretty thin' in her face an' tell the truth about just that 'un thin' instead, 'o make another question out of what she said."

"But she asked about the dress, an' the way yer puttin' it—"

"Farflit, for the last time, she wasn't really talkin' about the dress," Nushka said dryly. Well, Captain Oreslash's wife had been half talking about the dress; Farflit needed to see the question as something else to answer decently and honestly. Because Hellgates knew he didn't have anything positive to say about that damn dress, as honest as it was. "She could've meant herself, an' you have to go along with that idea— 'o whichever 'un that works— to make your half lie a truth."

"Then why didn't she just say 'do you think I'm pretty'?" Farflit demanded, plowing through Nushka's points. He held back another wince at knocking his back against the chair, but it changed none of his indignation. "It's not that hard."

"Beasts en't like maps, Farflit," Nushka said, reaching out and pressing her paw across the ink-trailed surface of a map pinned on the wall. The whole scouting den was wallpapered in them from left to right, leaving thousands of paper miles to be condensed into faint tracings and scribbles across only one room. "They don't say what they want right to your face; you have to listen an' figure out what they really mean. Especially when it comes to higher-ups an' lords 'o leaders," Nushka said.

She apparently hadn't been able to keep the disdain out of her final words, because Farflit perked up viciously as if he had found an ally.

"That's stupid," he said. "They're in charge of thin's. They need to ask for what they want, why they want it, an' then get out. It en't a game. Lyin' an' steppin' around is weak an' dumb."

"You're wrong there, pup," Nushka said, remembering Nekon pulling on different clothes— ones that didn't belong to Mavern— and giving a strained smile unable to hide the hope and excitement behind it as he left. "At least, about 'un thin'. It is a game. It's just 'un that plays with fancy dresses an' armies instead of jacks an' bent-up coppers. Most of the higher-up parts of that crowd; they love double meanin's an' steppin' around what they really mean durin' their parties an' dinners. It's their thin'. An' you keep that in mind that so you can do all the question changin' I told you about an' play the politeness game without lyin'."

"Their 'thing' needs to die in a corner with that ugly dress."

"Farflit," Nushka warned.

Farflit recoiled slightly from the hint of growl in her voice, but he wasn't any less aggravated, and his fur had puffed up around him in a grey haze of annoyance at pure stupidity. Suddenly, Farflit seemed almost twice his size.

"It's still dumb," he said sulkily. Nushka rolled her eyes. Vulpez help her, he was yet determined to be defiant and not play along. "An' the whole makin' truth out of lies that en't-really-lies-but-kind-of thin'… can you do that anywhere else?"

"No," Nushka said, pulling her paw from the map. "Just with compliments an' little thin's, usually 'uns that happen around expensive silverware an' tankards. Doesn't work around anythin' important."

There was a pause.

"…it's still all lyin'. I don't like it. I'm not goin' to do it."

So much for the lesson.

"Yes, Farflit, it is," Nushka said. She half-snorted under her breath. "Slagshards, you an' Tilda both are awful at the whole 'politeness' thin', an' I think you both hate it just as much— but she goes through with it, because she knows she has to at the dinners. She gets to sayin' what she needs to afterwards, when it counts. You should do the same when important thin's actually end up in your lap, pup."

The ball of fluff in the chair that constituted as Farflit proudly straightened up some when compared to Tilda, and Nushka's eyebrows raised slightly when she saw a twitch around the corners of his mouth. Was it possible…?

"So since you've hated every last moment of the lesson about politeness— _excuse me, _lyin'— about until now, but you've still learned somethin'," Nushka said, tilting forward, "are you at least goin' to give me a decent smile?"

Farflit immediately glowered at her.

"No."

Well, damnit.

* * *

_A.N: In case anyone forgot that Farflit, too, was once a cub. Even the mightiest, harshest, and coldest start out little. -SL_


	4. Acquaintances (Farflit)

When Farflit was given solid orders, he followed them. When they were questionable, stupid orders from the supposed sergeant Dakin, he didn't follow them, and told the sergeant he wasn't going to. If there was no logical reason for fightin', Farflit thought, why pander to Sergeant Dakin's nonsense? Those in command had to prove they were. If not, it was a hollow title. Farflit would give no respect to them. They didn't deserve it.

But when he received commands from Captain Tilda to follow the sergeant's orders— or direct orders from her— the grey fox would obey them, no matter the outcome.

Captain Tilda had told him he was going to join the group of military Marvern foxes and Damsontongues going south to the mine for extra training and expanding Mavern's territory. It was not a request.

"Alright, everyone, line your tails up!" the leader of the group barked, pacing in front of the soldiers to organize the grey foxes. Next to him, the tribal fox in charge of the Damsontongues in the entourage did the same, snapping out a few final orders as he moved around the purple-striped crowd.

Farflit got on his feet from where had been sitting, hefting his rations pack over his shoulder and checking his dual swords at his waist. Around him, other Mavern soldiers followed suit, some still chattering to each other in expectation of moving out. Spears were clanked and swords and bows were given last minute inspections. Every one of the foxes were dressed in their uniforms.

If you looked to the right at the Damsontongue crowd, Farflit thought, glancing at his new training partners and allies, the difference was immediate. None of them had uniforms— every last one of the Damsontongues were dressed in tribal pants and coats, bandage wraps were twined around their lower legs to keep their clothes from catching on any harsh rocks or terrain, and cloaks hung from their shoulders. Their faces were all painted with the same purple streaks beneath their eyes that swept to their jawlines.

And as for their decorations— Farflit had to bite his tongue to keep from making a remark about compensating for shortcomings. More than one tribe member had bird bone carvings lining their belts or weapon sheaths, and some even had woven plumes of feathers hanging from their quivers. Farflit swore he even saw a cloak clasp or two bearing fangs or claws. _The whole group is as gaudy as the bandits and hordebeasts I've fought, _Farflit thought, _or worse._

The thought brought a frown to his face. He turned away from the Damsontongues, ignoring how one slender beast seemed to be pointing at him and saying something to their nearby friend. If the tribe beasts could fight proficiently, then fine. He would tolerate them until he came to know them better. They had a whole three months worth of marching to the south to get familiar.

_Vulpez knows CAPTAIN Tilda won't partner us up with anyone she finds worthless, after all,_ Farflit thought.

Suddenly, there was a bitter taste blooming in his mouth at the thought of the Captain's calm, hard eyes and her always-present air of command. Farflit swallowed his disgust and the twist in his belly down. He forced his face to remain neutral and controlled as he shut out the memory of her angry voice and her face only inches from his.

Farflit stared coldly ahead as the Mavern group leader finished making his final checks and began to explain something about uniform usage to a squat fox in front. Captain Tilda had made her decisions. He had made his. There was no reason for her to bid him goodbye; she was his captain, not _family_, and she was sorely damn well mistaken if she believed otherwise.

Judging by Aunt Tilda's absence from the small farewell party that lingered around the group's edges, she understood that just fine.

"Hello?"

Farflit turned to face the voice behind him, forcing the stiffness out of his movements. He tried to mentally shove down his fur when he realized it was bristling. The fox clenched his teeth for a moment.

"Yes?" he said, finding his composure again.

Instead of coming face-to-face with another Mavern soldier he hadn't met yet, Farflit found himself looking at a fox with slick brown fur and purple stripes down its cheeks. He had accidentally migrated closer to the divide between the two vulpine groups, and now a much taller Damsontongue was offering out their paw in greeting.

"I am Yang Damsontongue," he said. The long black cloak over his shoulders gave a ripple as he inclined his head. Farflit glanced at the cloak brooch hanging at his neck. Two long white sickles were bound together to make a delicate brooch almost as sharp as their owner's muzzle and cheekbones. _Adder fangs._ "I do not believe we have met before."

"No, we haven't," Farflit said. He reached and shook the paw being offered towards him. Farflit made note of callouses he felt along the thin, nimble fingers. Yang was perfectly capable of snapping someone else's bones or making quick movements, Farflit thought. It would be good to keep that in mind when any future sparring arrived.

"I'm Farflit," Farflit said.

Yang paused after the brief handshake, looking at Farflit for a few seconds as if he expected more. Farflit stared right back at him. If he was waiting for a surname, Farflit thought, he wasn't going to get one. Not everyone outside the tribe was as fixated on havin' a second title or sharing it with others.

The fox was momentarily drawn back to remember echoed words he had overheard from down the hall while patching up one of his training wounds.

_"Captain Tilda Anorak, m'am! Reporting for duty!"_

_"It's only Captain Tilda. At ease, soldier."_

_"I came to deliver a message, m'am."_

_"An' what would that be?"_

_"We're having trouble with one of Sergeant Dakin's soldiers, m'am."_

_"Sergeant Dakin has the position of 'Sergeant' for a reason. He can deal with his own soldiers under his command."_

_"But Captain Tilda, m'am—"_

_"What?"_

_"Isn't 'Farflit Anorak' your nephew?"_

_There was a pause Farflit had heard, even from the healing cabinet. He had momentarily stopped stitching up his arm to listen in with perked ears._

_There was the sound of a door opening further._

_"…come in."_

Farflit was snapped from his memory and the nasty twinge in his chest when he felt Yang observing him. The Damsontongue's eyes went to the dual swords strapped across the scruffier and fox's back.

"You fight with two swords?"

"Two swords 'o a dagger," Farflit said. "Whatever works in combat. Why else would I carry them?"

"You make a good point," Yang said dryly. He didn't seem to be as pleased to be meeting Farflit as when the introduction had started. Farflit admittedly didn't care.

"I know." Farflit turned his eyes to Yang's waist, spotting a hilt that was hidden beneath his long cloak. "You fight with a sword?"

"Yes," Yang said, laying his paw on the worn sword hilt. "Why else would I carry it?"

Yang's and Farflit's gazes glanced up just in time to make contact. Two pairs of brown eyes stared each either down.

There was a long moment of scrutiny between the two foxes. It was broken when one of the soldiers near Farflit sneezed, wiping their nose on the back of their paw, and a high, lilting laugh came from one of the Damsontongue tribe.

Yang shifted his head, one of his ears flicking. He let his fingers drift down his sword hilt. "However," he continued, as if nothing had just happened, Farflit doing the same, "I have been usin' this sword a bit more lately than I would like to… an' on beasts I would rather not be."

Yang's brown eyes glazed over slightly, his fingers twitching at his weapon as memory nibbled at his senses. Farflit's belly gave a startled hop when he recognized the look of distorted regret on Yang's face before it faded. For a moment, the grey fox felt a sour, wretched burn in the back of his chest, remembering faint screams and the sound of clanking chains, and then, it was gone.

"Were you in the slave line incident?"

Yang immediately snapped free of his remembrance at Farflit's words. He saw a familiar look on the other fox's face. The Damsontongue drew in a quiet breath.

"Were you?"

"Yes," Farflit said. An edge of a bitter smile creased the side of his mouth as he tapped one of his own sword hilts. "They thought I would be useful. I… had to oblige them."

Farflit grimaced at his words. _It's one thing to feel them,_ he thought, _an' another thing to voice them. _Yang looked almost relieved to be finding another beaten kindred spirit, and yet subtly disgusted with himself for doing so. There was a distant buzz of words and final farewells as the last few soldiers gave their relations quick goodbyes. There were not that many of them. Mavern was about punctuality; you told your family long farewells while you were at home, not lined up and ready to leave. Only the foolish dragged their emotional tripe into a mission.

"I share your sentiments," Yang said. "My leaders felt the same as yours. I have to say, though, that I did not entirely make them happy with my actions."

"Neither did I. But they should've expected it; they can deal with it," Farflit said, extra harshness slipping into his voice.

"Hmm." Yang said. He paused for a few moments. Farflit could sense himself being judged. "I did not see you in my squad. Which slave line did you… Were you in the first, 'o second?"

"First. We got it over with, an' went home."

'Went home' had meant stomping back to Mavern, stuck between a hazy rage, hatred, and nausea, Farflit thought.

"As did we," Yang said, and Farflit could hear the exact same intonation in his voice. He understood.

Yang turned to look at the rest of the Damsontongues milling around, watching the sea of purple lines across faces waver and dip through every wave of movement. How many of them had participated along with Yang? Farflit tried not to guess.

"Personally," Yang said, a sense of harder finality in his tone as he viewed his group, "I am glad to be goin' south."

"I'm not," Farflit said. Some anger flared in the pit of his chest at the thought of Captain Tilda's orders. "I've been there once. If ignorance an' playin' the fool makes beasts happy, then the northern Mossflower beasts are the happiest group alive."

When Farflit had returned home after patrolling, after the week with the deep, icy, brittle atmosphere within the home, he had received the orders to go south. He was told to leave Mavern an' troop down to the quarries—and all the sake of training and being taught more _discipline._

The northern edge of Mossflower was like the naive, cowardly new soldier that was forced to stay in the center of the patrol to keep from bein' killed, Farflit thought. So were its residents. They were not far south enough to be pressed against the coast and bear brutal attacks from corsairs and slavers— but neither were they far north enough to face the cruelty of harsh winters and hard conditions.

It was just the right place to create some idiotic, softened beasts that could be swayed to either make sacrifices or vehemently oppose them. They were as indecisive as cubs, Farflit thought.

Yang looked a bit taken aback at Farflit's suddenly barbed words, but his surprise faded quickly. He had good control over his expressions, Farflit thought.

"Then why do you go south?" Yang said. "You obviously do not care to be here. Why not remain within your home?"

There was a challenge buried in his voice, somethin' that was almost accusatory, and Farflit heard it immediately. The way the Damsontongue was eyeing over him and his companions— combined with his not-quite-casual pose to top it off— made Farflit inwardly prickle in an instant. Yang had been part of the same thing he had, even if they hadn't been in the same group. _He has no place to be accusing me of turning tail on my mistakes,_ Farflit thought.

Hellgates, it hadn't even been a mistake, when Farflit looked at it. It… had been necessary. It sure as hell wasn't something Farflit would _mistakenly _do out of idiocy. He would have never done it if it wasn't necessary; would have never made a mistake like that—

"Because I have to," Farflit said, restraining his temper from spiking his tone as he looked up at Yang, "an' for some of the same reasons you're goin'. Why do you go down south? To run from what you've did?" he added, leaning in. The flat scorn in his voice doubled at the end of his words.

"I followed orders, nothin' more an' nothin' less," Yang said, his cordial attitude abruptly dropping. He glared at Farflit with cool sharpness capable of slitting a jugular vein. Farflit's fur bristled slightly, and he stared back, matching Yang's gaze part-for-part with the underlying current of iciness.

"So did I," Farflit said. He narrowed his eyes, forcing to keep his ears upright instead of pinning them back for a few seconds. "Does that answer yer previous question better, then?"

"Yes," Yang said. His face was unreadable, becoming a stoic mask. Farflit still didn't miss the flash of aggression in his face. "Yes, it does. Thank you."

"Alright, everyone, line up!"

At the bark of command from the Mavern leader in front, the entire crowd immediately broke apart and began to organize themselves. To their left, the Damsontongue crowd began to stir and get into some semblance of order Farflit couldn't see.

Farflit and Yang looked back at each other after the leader's announcement was over. Yang gave a polite inclination of his head.

"It has been… interestin' speakin' to you, Farflit. I hope we will get better acquainted later."

"I think we will," Farflit said. He refused to speak in the same courteous tenor Yang was taking, the one that meant the conversation was over an' someone wanted you to leave, but the fox kept from getting overly blunt. "There'll be plenty of time to spar later. Goodbye, Yang. Nice to make yer acquaintance."

Farflit and Yang gave each other courteous nods before marching away in their separate groups as they moved out. They were united in one smooth, organized mass of foxes— and segregated by neat divides of blue uniforms and purple facial stripes.

Some of the other foxes made attempts to break the borders.

They did not.


	5. Apples to Ashes (?)

The sun hung over the scattered orchard trees, glowing with all the unattainability of a mint copper coin. It was fall, but a hot day was searing its place into the smooth ribbon of cool weather, and the dirt road that trailed around the small orchard and ventured into the equally small town was murder to walk on. The sun made all the kerchiefs and picking sacks over bowed heads and backs radiate heat from its rays, and the fall fruit smelled of being cooked while everyone tramped over the dusty dirt road.

A nearby stoat was lucky to be out of the sun. He was standing on his tiptoes to pluck apples from the crooked lines of orchard trees. The stoat freed one of the pale yellow and red apples from its bent branch and patiently dropped it into a basket before he moved onto the next one. The old mouse lady who lived in a wind chime-choked house right nearby said she would pay him a few coppers if he got the apples she was too short to reach, so he was doing it for her.

She had looked him over close like she was eying a cuckoo nest when he came knocking on her door for work and immediately said yes to her suggestion, and she gripped her cane close in her withered paws. And he knew that when other beasts looked at him that way, it meant they were worried about him wanting more coin or something, so he just bowed his head and told her how old he was to make her stop worrying. Grown-ups wanted a lot more coin than cubs or halfers. They didn't like getting only a few.

The old mouse gave him a light whack in the side of the leg with her cane with even more disbelief in her eyes than before, and it only increased when she felt how hard his leg was when the cane gave a resounding _thwack_. She pushed her big glasses up her grey nose and raised her head to look up at his face.

"…you're lying. Are you really eleven seasons, boy? Or are you just trying to pry somma my apples out from under an old lady's nose?"

"No m'am, I'm eleven," the stoat said back, bobbing his head. He would have taken off his hat, but he didn't have one. "I turnt it sometime back in spring."

The mouse paused, slowly looking him over again. He was a good two heads taller than her— more, in fact— and the shadow from his shoulders could eclipse her whole frail and hunched frame. She tapped a finger on her reed cane worn smooth from holding.

"No stealing," she said. She emphasized the words like she was trying to drive them through his skull. When he only watched her with obedience, she dropped some of her critical expression and leaned heavily on her cane like most old ladies did. The mouse thumbed back at a rickety shack near her orchard. "Baskets are back there. I'll leave the coppers out on the porch railing come tomorrow morning. Now get to your job… what was your name again?"

"Sam," the stoat said.

So now, an hour later, Sam was plucking apples off trees and making sure he got each one before he moved on with the basket. He had filled up two of them, and a few apple leaves had come loose from their trees and fluttered down to the ground or landed on his head, but he was making progress. The stoat would come back tomorrow to finish the second row of trees and get paid for the first one.

Sam stood up on his tiptoes again to reach deep into the bendy depths of the apple tree limbs and wrench free another apple, twisting the stem to snap it free as he went. The trees were young, but the apples were ripe and all pale red and yellow flushed together and seemed to sit right in the middle of his big clunky paws like tiny balls. They were pretty, he thought.

He dropped another apple in the basket before hauling it up and moving to the next tree. The apples lightly jarred each other as he walked, their stems and tiny stray leaves shaking against each other. Sam watched them. Was anyone going to play the apple game with the ones that still had stems, or was the old lady mouse going to keep them to herself?

Whenever the other vermin working in the fields or farming or hammering something out of metal got to buy apples, all the girls would sit the fruits down in their patched skirt laps. They would start twisting the stems. For every whole twist of the stem before it broke, that meant another male they were going to be with before they married or got someone to live with them and stay. The apple game was supposed to work for males too.

Whenever Sam tried it, he didn't even finish half of one twist before he yanked the stem right out of the apple. He gave one of them to his mother. She stared at the apple for a long, long time before finally taking it from his paw and muttering 'it figures.'

Sam had set the basket down and was picking more fruit from another tree when he heard snickering from the dirt road. A stray rock clipped his basket, and another hit his leg.

"Oi, freak! Are you done standing around yet, or is that all you know how to do?"

A sneering mouse from the woodlander village down the dirt road pushed up his floppy cap and bounced another rock in his paw. Next to him, a taller otter and a squirrelmaid gave matching sneers and smiles. Sam could already see the pebbles and hard nuts they had gathered from the ground and trees spilling out of their paws or stuffed in their clean pockets. He didn't recognize them. It didn't matter.

"Aw, what's wrong? Cat got thy tongue, vermin? Or are thou too stupid to speak?" the squirrel said, her red tail flouncing. Sam tried to look away from them and shuffle behind the tree to keep picking apples, but the otter saw his nervous glance. He gave a predatory grin and drew back a miniature sling.

"If he ain't stupid now, he's goin' to be once I rattle around what brains he's got in that thick skull of his."

"You'd have to give him a brain rattling anyway; he's stealing those apples," the mouse said, noticing Sam's basket and immediately scowling. "And in broad daylight, too— Dark Forest, shows just how backward vermin are. 'specially the rejects."

Sam managed to make himself speak up as he saw the otter draw back his sling. The stoat still had an apple in paw drew protectively over his chest.

"I'm not stea—"

On cue, there was a barrage of rocks.

"Crawl back up your mother's filthy skirt, you worthless lump! Don't let 'er kick you in the face again; might make an improvement!"

"Jumbo dumbo!"

"Snotfaced abomination! Go back where thou belong, fice!"

In the shower of rocks, one hit Sam in the shoulder. He flinched back, but he didn't run, and the stoat yelped and shielded his head with his arms when one of the squirrel's spiky nuts hit him near the eye. The stoat hunkered down the best he could without moving, but his size made the effort all but successful, and the well-aimed rocks kept coming. Sam could feel them thudding against his chest, arms, and legs and leaving burning spots of pain, especially the ones launched from the otter's sling. His eyes watered when one almost hit him between the legs, and he whimpered, making laughter rise from the road. More rocks were aimed towards his lower belly and groin. Sam was forced to cross his legs at more jeering.

"What's the matter, vermin? Can't take the heat when it's your coward pelt gettin' hurt instead of some cub or innocent mother, huh?" the otter said, his voice thick with fierce vindictiveness. There was another whistle of the sling and a _thwack_. Sam's wrist throbbed and went numb.

"Don't cross your legs, coward; thou and thy kind have nothing to hide!"

"Colossal half-wit!"

"_Oversized miscarriage!_"

"That's enough!" a female voice barked, hurrying down the road, and the woodlanders started and yelped before they scattered, cursing and mocking the approaching beast the whole time they ran. "You done already covered him in rocks an' bruises, you little hellions, leave!"

Sam slowly pulled his arms from his face when he didn't feel more rocks hitting him. His wrist felt swollen and raw. On the road, a small group of vermin were coming back from the cheap market on the outskirts of the village limits, their backs laden down with sacks of bruised fruits and vegetables, or whatever they could afford to feed their families. Several were grumbling quietly at the now absent woodlander cubs that were dancing and lingering around the path far up ahead and making faces.

Sam felt something wet running down his other wrist and making his fingers sticky. He dully opened his paw. The apple he was holding was crushed into a pulp.

He didn't get more time to look at it and see how broken it was before a broad-shouldered female stoat from the vermin group came marching over to him, her heavy sack of fruit still slung over her shoulder.

"Sam! You alright?" she said, immediately putting down her fruit and taking his face in her paws to look over him. Sam winced when her fingers passed close to his eye, and she turned his head to the side, whining in the back of her throat when she saw the faint traces of blood. She immediately began to ramble on about bandages underneath her breath while she picked at his shoulders and preened at his face and fretted over him, ignoring the awkward concept of personal space. Sam blinked once at another swift touch and tried to gently pry her paws away.

"Ma, it's okay. I'm not bleedin' 'o anythin'—"

"Rotcore, you _are_ bleedin'; I'm surprised they din't take out your whole eye," the female ranted, brushing at the few faint drops of blood that existed and the bruise that currently didn't. "'bout an inch away from it, anyway. If that otter woulda aimed better—"

"Elora, leave the cub alone; his eye en't gone, an' you're wastin' time clingin' all over him as is," one of the vermin from the road said. She had uneven legs and a sloping sash that was tied at the corner of her waist, showing more leg to the left than the right, and her whole posture was one of a beast who wanted to get on with life. Besides a sack of vegetables hanging on her back, there was also a wrapped-up bundle of a cub, whose face was sleepily sticking out of its cocoon. "You're suffocatin' the poor blaggerin' thing. It'd take a bloody badger to squash down your son," she said, eying Sam. "Quit pinin' on him due ta a little rock. We have ta get movin'."

"Was a bit more than a little rock," Elora grumbled, momentarily retreating inside herself with her paw resting on Sam's shoulder. She blinked and looked up when she saw the apple juice dripping out of Sam's reaching paw that was trying to parry her off. Elora grabbed his paw and jerked it forward.

"What's this?" she barked.

"Elora…" the vermin on the road warned.

Elora moved to pry open Sam's fingers, but he went ahead and opened his paw for her. The mashed remains of the apple glared up at both of them, smashed and pasty. Peels of skin and a tilted stem poked out of it.

"Sam, why do you have this?" Elora said.

"I was holdin' it when the rocks started," Sam said. Elora looked up at him sharply. Whatever she saw in his face, she didn't like.

"Sam, you din't… you din't try to throw anythin' back 'o hit them, did you?"

"I din't mean to squash it an' I wasn't thinkin' of—"

Elora grabbed his jaw and wrenched his face around to look at her. "_Did you try ta hit them?_" she growled.

"No, I din't," Sam said, helplessly looking up at Elora's face, though it wasn't much of a stretch to do so. "I din't try ta hit them back. I was just holdin' the apple."

Elora looked at his face closer before she released his chin, and she gave a weary sigh, fussing over his shoulders and upper arms again in something that was pure nervousness rather than an attempt to help.

"'Gates, Sam, don't you ever try ta hit them back," she muttered, picking a burr out of his shoulder. "They might be your age, but they en't near your size, an' if some'un like you knocked 'em down— they might not get back up again."

Elora seemed to shrink back again without moving. She was by no means weak— her hips were wide, as were her shoulders, and her paws were made rough and broad by years and years of work. A thick and hardy skort made for hours of kneeling in fields or hauling loads without ripping hung close to her body. But when she got like this, Sam thought, her nervousness was enough to make her look fragile.

"You can finish pluckin' that tree tomorrow if you get here early an' finish it; the old 'un won't notice the difference," Elora said, scraping the apple off Sam's paw and towing him back to the group. "You don't want be ta near any woodlanders, even if they're swarmin' hereabouts like blood suckin' flies. They can see you easy enough already," she continued as they headed on down the path to the shoddier part of the village where they stayed, other vermin in their group peeling away as they found their families and homes. Elora was still talking to herself and lecturing Sam long after they passed by the scattered snickering woodlanders and got back to their own shack.

"You need ta just… stay away from them; tell me whenever you're goin' somewhere. I don't know why you take jobs that stick so close ta the road," she muttered, unsticking the crooked door to their home as Sam held the bag of produce behind her. Both stoats entered the undecorated and mostly bare room, a place stripped of everything but two cots, a water bucket, a small table and chairs, and a short line of patched up laundry. Some battered pans and other small necessities hung off pegs on the wall. The vermin cooked outside.

"The mouse said she'd pay any'un a few coppers if they cleaned off her trees for her," Sam explained, holding still as Elora took the bag of food from his paws and began to dab at his swelling face with a damp cloth. It looked like the corner from her old apron. "So I went an' asked her about it an' she said yes."

"I'm not surprised she did, seein' she'd have to pay those short town brats a good few extra coppers ta get them on the job," Elora said. She dabbed at Sam's bruise, something that required no bending down on her part. Elora was not short herself, but at eleven seasons, Sam's head was already up to her nose. He was a giant if there was one. "Lore, you're gettin' huge," Elora said, talking to herself below her breath as she worked. "Just like your father was. Bigger, maybe. I hope you en't goin' ta eat more than he did… that'll put us out of house an' home… but it doesn't matter that got your father's looks; you gots your mother's brains, an' a fat lot those'll do us, the way they rattle around in our skulls."

Elora gave a humorless laugh.

"Vulpuz, if you'd have just— if you'd have just gotten your father's head 'stead of your mother's…" she said, voice still low and eyes not quite focused as she mopped up another bruise. "He was smart, an' he had just as much wit in that big body of his as he did strength, an' that scairt the woodlanders half to death as much as him fightin' back an' steppin' up to them did. S'why they put him under as fast as they did…"

"Ma?" Sam said. Elora looked up at him from where she was dazedly staring at his bicep and mopping a cut on it.

"What?"

"Didn't you say we had ta move out the old table for kindlin' choppin' tonight?"

"That I did," Elora said. She finally pulled away from Sam, turning with her paws on her hips to survey the thick table in front of them. It was of no great size, but it was hewn from wood more than a paw's breadth thick, and the legs were almost wider than Sam's ankle. It was dense if not large. "We'll probably have ta pick this thing up together an' pack it out over to Tet's. He's the only 'un who has a decent ax around here. It's about time we got a better table, anyway. This 'un is fixin' ta fall apart. Again."

"It's alright; I got it," Sam said, seeing the tired set of his mother's shoulders. He could handle this himself. She didn't need to stress herself more. While Elora was moving to grab the bag of fruit and vegetables for cutting, Sam strode over to the table and kneeled to get his shoulders beneath it. By the time Elora heard the grunt of effort and turned back around, Sam had hoisted up the table over his shoulders, its short legs hanging down around him like those of a giant clipped bug. The stoat had a hold of two of the front legs as he lumbered over to the door, his arms straining.

"If you could open the door for me—" Sam said.

Elora screamed.

"DROP IT!" she shrieked, instantly abandoning her pot of vegetables to come and howl at Sam as she yanked at his nearest arm. "PUT IT DOWN!"

Sam stared at her in confusion. "Ma?"

Elora began to beat on his shoulder, hitting several of the budding bruises and sore spots left behind by the rocks. Pain laced up Sam's arm. "Drop the table, Sam; YOU DROP THE TABLE THIS SECOND! Tain't _natural!_"

His mother's hard fist and fingers, combined with the table's weight— and his confusion and pain— were too much. Sam bent and let the table slide off his back and neck, and it hit the floor with a deafening crash of wood, rolling so that its legs were upended. Sam clutched his shoulder though his mother had stopped hitting him the instant he released the table. He backed away and stared at her, unable to get anything through the internal numbness.

"Damnit, Sam, why'd you do that?" Elora burst out, gesturing at him. "What if you'd gotten out the door an' some'un had seen you; you want them ta cut you up with rocks more than they already are? You want to lose an eye, Sam? Ta be goggled at like some abomination? What were you _thinkin'?!_"

There was dead silence after Elora finished her words. The table still lay upended on the floor. One of its legs was chipped. Sam's hurt wrist throbbed.

"It ain't— it ain't _natural_ for an eleven season old ta be carryin' somethin' like that by themselves," Elora said, voice lower. She was still breathing harder as she looked down at the table. "It's not."

When there was no reply, Elora looked up. She saw Sam's face. Something in hers broke.

"Oh, Hellgates. C'mere, Sam," she muttered, stretching out her arms. Sam hesitated for a moment before coming forward. Elora laid her paws on his shoulders, and she gently stroked his face and behind his jaw and ear. She avoided his swelling eye.

"I en't doin' this ta hurt you 'o try an' make things worse," Elora said softly. "It's nothin' like that. I'm just worried about you, Sam. It en't good ta remind others how strong you are, especially at your age. They'll take it an' run, an' it'll hurt you worse than any rock they chuck, because I don't think you know how scairt beasts are of somethin' strong they don't think they got under their heel."

Elora's eyes clouded with old sorrow, and Sam quietly leaned into her paw to feel the warmth against his face.

"I don't see how them knowin' I'm strong is a bad thing," Sam said. Elora gave him an exhausted withering look.

"Really? Sam, right now, if they learn how strong you are, they're goin' ta use it," Elora said. "The jobs they give you will all work you half to death because you're strong— are jobs that would kill a regular cub, that they wouldn't dare give— an' then they'll pay you only a few coppers an' won't give you anymore when you ask for 'em, because _'that's what wages a cub gets, isn't it? He's eleven seasons, en't he? I en't got to pay him more.'_"

Elora stroked Sam's face again.

"They'll work you like a dog, pay you like a cub, an' then bury you like 'un," Elora said, and Sam didn't know which she was talking about. "Just like they did your father. An' at your age… you shouldn't be doin' more than pickin' apples or haulin' a few things around. Not bein' a damn _lumberjack _or stone carrier like some of 'em were eyin' you for," Elora said, her eyes flashing with disgust.

Sam's stomach rolled. And inside himself, he didn't feel very big at all.

"They're already talkin' about puttin' me there?"

"Thinkin', murmurin'— not talkin'," Elora said dismissively. She patted Sam's ear to soothe him. "It en't the same as decidin'." Elora gazed at her giant son and sighed, letting her paw fall to rest on Sam's other shoulder while the stoat mother looking up the ceiling. "Lore, guess it's a bit too late ta be tryin' to hide this now. You already gave yourself out a season earlier when you were haulin' those two big mouse-size sacks of flour down the middle of the village road on your shoulders— an' don't give me that look, Sam, it's alright. What's done is done. I don't know why the bleedin' blimer that hedgehog payin' you didn't tell you ta take a short cut. The middle of town was the longest way to start with."

"I don't know," Sam said. He looked at his mother's face and hesitated. "Are you goin' ta let me go ta the mouse's orchard in the mornin'? I still need ta finish the job."

"Alone?" Elora said, and suddenly, her nervousness was back. "Can't you get some'un ta go with you? I can't go with you, seein' I have some field work to do, but—"

"Ma, I'll be alright by myself," Sam promised. "No 'un's goin' ta be out that early."

Elora looked on the verge of fretting again, but she resigned for the moment when she saw the simple determination on her son's face. The stoat patted his shoulder.

"Alright, fine. You can go by yourself." She tugged on Sam's collar bone, giving him a stern look. "What do you when a stranger goes by?"

"You don't look 'em right in the face an' keep on goin'," Sam said. This recitation was old, but she would feel better if he held still and said it, so he would.

Elora tapped him again, not entirely pleased with his answer.

"What else do you do?"

"You make yourself look smaller," Sam said. "An' like you're not goin' ta hurt them, 'o do anythin' that could scare them. An' you don't do nothin' ta them, no matter what, unless they're tryin' ta kill you."

"Right," Elora said. "Spot on, cub." She stepped back and looked at the blocky young stoat standing in front of her. Elora gave a warm smile, momentarily making the creased lines beneath her eyes seemed happy, and spread her arms. "Now… give your ma a hug."

Sam obediently hugged his mother.

* * *

_A.N: So while regular RT chapters aren't on my priorities list, this short was a vivid scene I couldn't get out of my head- namely, the first few conversations Sam had with his mother. I feel like some parts are a bit shabby, but ah well._

_No cookies for telling me who Sam is; I think you all know. ;)_


	6. Hello Son (Farflit)

When Tilda Anorak opened the door to the quiet rap on the outside, the last thing she expected to find on her steps was an amicable-faced, hooded vixen with a traveling cloak.

"Faina!" she burst out, throwing her arms open. "It's been a long, long time since I've seen you!"

"Tilda!" the other vixen cooed back, embracing her tougher sister as she shuffled through the door. "Ha, it's the same here! But the ice was keeping Gespine and I from comin' down… you know how it is. Still, I'm here."

"Yes; yes you are," Tilda said, moving back and closing the door. Faina pulled down her hood, shaking the static from her head and neck fur. "I didn't expect this. What put Mavern on yer travel route?"

"Ah, well, I decided to check in on my family," Faina said, eyeing Tilda's home. She had a charmed look on her face at the militant basicness of the entrance. "Where's the shame in that? After all, I haven't seen you in five years, an' Farflit is— he's eight now, isn't he?"

"He's six."

"Oh. Anyway, it's good to see you!" Faina said. "We should catch up," she continued, and both vixens headed into the dining room.

A few hours and conversations later, there were the remains of jam and butter smothered bread crusts lying on plates. Tilda hated anything sweet, so the vixen only spread a layer of butter over her bread the width of a razor. Faina, on the other paw, raided the jam jar, heaping copious amounts of the red raspberry gel on her toast. The vixens' laugher sprung out of the room, lighting up the silence. Faina held her paw to her head, still chuckling.

"Vulpez, really? He doesn't think you can see him doin' it?"

"No," Tilda said, grinning. "I told him not to mess with the old spear, but he did anyway, an' that ten pound lump of metal fell an' got him right in the face. He was spittin' out a front tooth an' tryin' not to bawl when I got to him… he looked so damn pathetic that I couldn't whip his sorry tail like I should've. Farflit sticks his tongue up in that toothless hole every bloody second he thinks I'm not watchin'. With half the expressions he makes, you'd think he's a concussed loon."

Faina laughed again. She pulled away her paw from her face, settling back into her chair.

"Spirits, I've missed a lot… I haven't visited my son in forever. I need to see how handsome he's gotten. An' it's good to see you too, as busy as running Mavern must be." Faina turned her paw over to observe her claws. "It must be hard to take care of a cub, what with all the duties of a captain… you'd think he'd get in the way, really…"

Tilda's smile was rapidly fading. Faina tilted her paw again to look at another one of her claws, nonplussed and casual as she trailed off.

"…what do you want, Faina?" Tilda said slowly.

"What do I want? Don't be blunt, Tilda," Faina said, waving her paw, "all I want to do is see my fami—"

"You haven't bothered checkin' in on yer family for five years, an' seven, before that," Tilda said. "Excuse me for doubtin' yer enthusiasm."

The happy atmosphere in the kitchen was bleeding out faster than a slit jugular. Faina's own smile faded, and she leaned forward.

"…Tilda, I'm ready to have my son back."

"What?"

"Gespine an' I have been talkin' about it—we started thinkin' about our current options an' whatnot now, an' how things are," Faina explained, "—an' we decided we'd be ready to take on a cub this time. It seemed wrong to make another one between us when Farflit was here, so—"

"You came back here expectin' me to hand him over?" Tilda said, staring at her.

"Well, yes," Faina said, drawing herself up and boldly ignoring the look on Tilda's face. Tilda snorted, rubbing her face.

"Yer unbelievable."

"I don't know what you're talkin' about," Faina said dismissively. "I said that the two of us were ready this time. Really, Tilda, you can just pass him to us; it's not goin' to be a big deal—"

Tilda stood from her chair and stalked out of the kitchen. Faina trailed after her like a lost ghost as she went through the hall and headed towards the main door.

"—we'll take good care of our son, an' you can have more of your time back," she argued.

"I've been takin' care of him fine for the past five seasons," Tilda said, turning and crossing her arms over her uniform jacket when they reached the door. "Farflit hasn't caused any issues for me."

"You've always been strong. I'm not too surprised." Faina nervously glanced over Tilda's shoulder, trying to edge around her. Tilda had somehow managed to get her against the wall. "But, now, if you could—"

"Yer not gettin' him back," Tilda said flatly.

Faina stopped and blinked in surprise, looking at her unmovable old sister in front of her. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"Tilda, could you pause for a second an' realize who you're talkin' to? I'm his mother, for Vulpez's sake."

"An' I'm his Aunt," Tilda shot back. "What happens to Farflit isn't yer concern any longer. Let me make somethin' clear: you may be his mother, Faina, but yer not the one who owns him."

"Who 'owns him'? I— damnit, Tilda," Faina burst out, her tail bristling, "don't talk about Farflit like he's just a thing, 'o one of your weapons 'o maps! He's a kit!"

"Really? Funny, you could've fooled me there with how you acted last time," Tilda said. She coolly met her sister's eyes. "I'm not goin' to glorify an' sugarcoat what you did, Faina."

"What happened last time wasn't…" Faina ran a paw over her head in frustration. "Look, Tilda, what happened before was for his own good, an' it wasn't permanent. I am NOT just goin' to stand here an' let you accuse me of pawnin' off my own cub like a sack of apples 'o dried herrings—"

"Oh, no; you just passed him off to the nearest livin' relative who wouldn't kill him. How foolish of me to believe that's different!" Tilda said. She gestured a paw at the wall. "You an' Gespine show up after seven seasons of not sendin' a single letter to me— of not botherin' to ask if any of our family is alive; to ask if I'M alive— an' then you pass off yer son to me while the swaddlin' cloth is still stickin' to him an' tell me _'can you take him, Tilda? I don't want a cub right now. I still want to travel.'_ An' NOW," Tilda growled, fiercely glaring down Faina, "after not botherin' to come to see him once since, you pop up to ask for him back before you head off into the wilderness again? I don't think so."

"Spirits, Tilda, don't be difficult; not right now," Faina said, letting a paw rest over her silky and worn traveling cloak. "Can't you get it through your hard head that I want Farflit? What happened in the past is over. He's comin' with his real family now. An' if you've gotten that attached to him, well, we'll come visit his Aunt Tilda every few years or so," she said, narrowing her eyes and leaning in with the edges of her teeth showing, "seein' she apparently just can't pry her paws OFF him—"

Tilda laughed harshly.

"Hellsteeth, I almost want to give him to you, since I know you'll return in two 'o three weeks askin' for me to take him back, because you tried the test run an' didn't quite like how some parts of raisin' a cub were hard, 'o how he didn't turn out to be exactly what you wanted. Like one of those frinkin' necklaces you were always buyin' an' hordin' in your closet because they didn't look as shiny on the second day."

"Fine," Faina snapped. "You can keep laughin', Tilda, because if you don't want to give Farflit back to where he belongs, I'll just go talk to him myself an' ask what _he_ wants."

"Then go," Tilda said. She moved away from Faina and opened the door. The vixen swept her arm out in an invitation to leave as Faina backed off to avoid her. "Go out the door, pull him out of class, an' try tellin' him you want to travel the world with him. Do you know why it's not goin' to work, Faina? Because he's not even goin' to recognize you as his own damn mother."

"No, he would," Faina protested, but uncertainty shone in her eyes, and her fierceness was dampened. "He would…"

"We're done here, Faina," Tilda said. She spoke with finality. "You're goin' to give him false hope an' then yank the rug out from under him when you tell him he's not good enough an' return him, an' then abandon him for six more years. I'm not goin' to let you do that to him."

"Spirits, Tilda," Faina said in a low voice, "listen to the bitterness in your voice."

"It's not bitterness. It's the sound of knowin' better," Tilda said simply. She paused. "…you're leavin' now?"

Faina was tugging her traveling cloak back over her shoulders and beginning to pull up her hood. "I came here to check on one thing. It's settled now," she said. "There's really no reason for me to stay longer."

Tilda hesitated.

"Faina— if you waited a bit longer, you could at least meet Farflit," Tilda said. "He's goin' to be out of trainin' class soon."

Faina paused in pulling up her hood.

"Wait how much longer?"

"A few hours, give 'o take."

"…I don't think so. It's been nice seein' you again, Tilda, but I have to go. I can't wait that long."

"Why not?" Tilda demanded.

"Well, Gespine an' I were trying to head to the coast for the spring merchant festival, an' we were hopin' to make it up there before it starts an' the prettiest things get sold out," Faina explained, smoothing down her fur beneath her adjusted cloak. "That means a lot of walkin' in the next few days, an' I don't want to lose hours of travelin' an' be late, you know?" she said, tilting her head.

"…I see," Tilda said. Her face was expressionless. She took a step back. "Goodbye then, Faina. It was a surprise to see you again. Tell Gespine I said hello."

"Will do, an' likewise, sister. But, one thing." Faina hesitated in the doorway. "Does… does he look like Gespine? 'O me?"

"No. Farflit doesn't really look like any of us," Tilda said, advancing towards her sister and shuffling her forwards.

Faina was out the door and on the threshold now.

"That has to be Gespine's family side I haven't met comin' out in him…" she mused. "Then who does he take after?"

"Well," Tilda said, cocking her hip where she stood in the doorway, "I'd say he's a lot like me, actually."

She shut the door in Faina's face.

A few hours later, the silence in the house was broken again as Farflit came home from class. He trooped through the miniscule living room still in his uniform, his bushy tail ruffled and messy from accidentally sitting on it for a few hours, and dropped his bag of homework into a chair around the table. Tilda was reading a scroll with new orders when he did so. She silently remained in the same chair she was in when Faina visited. All of the plates, cups, and knives had been cleaned and put away. There was no sign of a visitor.

After giving his necessary greeting of "hello, m'am," Farflit dropped his politeness with a few twitches of his nose as he immediately shifted straight into food-scavenging mode. Class was long, and he was hungry. The little fox pulled down the loaf of bread from the counter it was sitting on and hauled it back to the table, taking a knife with it, which looked like a saber in his paws.

After clumsily sawing off a few pieces of bread— which were still uneven and fatter at the bottom, despite his pained efforts to make them perfect— he went back to the counter. Farflit stood on his tiptoes and reached his arm up, his face almost pressed against the side of the counter as he groped around for the jam jar. The loaf of bread was easy enough for him to see and reach; the back of the counter, not so much. Farflit's ears and eyebrows were the only thing that perked up above the counter.

But since he was too stubborn to retrieve a chair to stand on, which would have grated across the floor the whole time he dragged it in a wooden scream that signaled the end of his dignity, Farflit kept a straight face and just awkwardly felt around the top of the counter. To Tilda's credit, she maintained the same expression and didn't look at him.

The fox cub frowned in consternation and furrowed his brows when he didn't find the jam jar in its usual place. His look only got more disapproving when he managed to grab its small glass form and took it back to the table, only to pop open the lid and find it gutted.

"Aunt Tilda, we're out of jam," he said.

"Use the butter," she said. She didn't look at how Farflit stared at the jar, pinned his ears back, and turned it upside down to shake it over his bread.

"I hate butter," he grumbled, surrendering on shaking the jar and giving the inside of it another sulky and accusatory look. "It's jam's sister that no 'un loves because she's a failure."

"An' I hate whiners; get on with it," Tilda barked, more snap in her voice than she intended. Farflit immediately silenced. He returned the jam jar to the counter and groped around for the butter. Tilda's paws were clenching her scroll hard enough to create sharp creases beneath her fingers. She was fixedly staring at one line on the scroll and not getting past it.

Farflit forgot about what past transgression he committed to cause Tilda to snap at him when he retrieved the butter and got it onto his bread. His hunger was turning all priorities inward. The fox kit scrambled into a chair, his legs hanging a solid reach above the floor. He sandwiched his buttery pieces together and probed his tongue up into his lost tooth spot before he began eating.

Tilda found she was staring right past her scroll. Despite having it raised for reading, she was watching Farflit's every move. He was focusing on biting off all the crusts first with his sharp teeth, and the way he went about it was almost dainty— much like the ceremony Tilda's smoother-faced sister did while eating bread.

Finally, after dismantling two sides of crust, Farflit realized that Tilda was staring at him. He hesitated and looked up from his sandwich. The fox glanced down at his uniform to make sure he hadn't smeared any crumbs on his coat or got them stuck in his whiskers.

"…Aunt Tilda, is there somethin' wrong?" he said.

When Tilda heard the faint concerned tone to his voice, she broke her staring. The vixen lowered her scroll and rolled it up as she leaned further back into her chair.

"No," she said, looking at Farflit's face. "There's nothin' wrong."

Farflit went back to eating.

* * *

_A.N: So this was going to be the flashback for the latest RT chapter, but I decided that it was too clunky, and it didn't fit in the scope of the story very well. Instead of trashing it, I just decided to move it to Balanced. Also, I am so sorry that this whole thing is basically turning into "snippets about Farflit" instead of including other characters. :c I promise the next one won't involve him. -SL_


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